Goodnight, Mr Holmes (or, Ginger Can Distract the Man)
by soBeautifullyObsessed
Summary: Sherlock is flummoxed and unable to sleep, over something trivial to his august mind. An Unexpected Kiss. The Scent of Ginger. Best not to think about it at all, though a visit to his Mind Palace brings the question back around. Of course John has the answer, even when Sherlock has clearly chosen NOT to ask him. Even in the Mind Palace, John's human wisdom is irrefutable.


The door to her flat unlocked, Tessa turned back to face Sherlock and say goodnight, a mildly perplexed expression upon her face. "So we've been out several times now, and I've asked you in for a drink several times. And you've always declined, so I'm kind of confused." Tessa paused, scanning his face for any sign she was going too far, " Because it feels to me like you're interested in me, and I think it's pretty clear I'm interested in you, and I've been out of the dating game for a couple of years now, so…well..." again she paused, hoping she wasn't now pushing him too much, "…what sort of game are we playing here, because I'd just like to know the rules."

He smiled and raised his brow, taking a measured moment before he spoke, "It's not a game, I believe it's what used to be called a courtship." Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, which looked to Tessa as though he was carefully considering his answer. "And this is fairly new territory for me as well, so if you could just see your way clear to…be patient…I think we can find the answers out together."

She was caught by such surprise, that she looked down sheepishly, shaking her head. "Courtship" the old-fashioned expression almost catching in her throat, "With a single word you make my knees go all weak."

Sherlock lifted up her chin with a gentle touch. "And then you blush so prettily, without a bit of guile about it, that mine do as well."

Tessa smiled and bit her lip, thinking of how to respond. "Well then," she finally replied, "if it's a courtship, then you should know" as she rose on her toes a bit, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on the lapel of his jacket, at last kissing his lips softly, pulling away to see his response—surprise from a man who is rarely surprised—and moved in again to kiss him more insistently, lingering in the end on his lower lip, at the last tugging away gently "_that_ is courtship _American-style_." The space between them was narrow and the only thing to be heard was their breath. He seemed slightly dazed, but quickly shook it off, breaking into a slow smile. But Tessa was wise to this much anyway, more familiar territory; what was the expression for this circumstance? Ah, yes—always leave them wanting more. She sighed and tried to keep the tremor from her voice, choosing a formal response to fit the old-fashioned notion he'd presented, "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."; she turned through the open door before he could respond, and closed it, with not too much force.

Knees remaining weak, and heart thundering in her chest, she leaned back against the closed door and took several calming breaths. After a time, she realized, sleep would not come easy tonight.

* * *

Her hair had smelled like ginger tonight. That had to be what was distracting him so much as he tried to ease down into sleep. Sherlock had noticed over their several meetings—not "dates", these were never meant to be "dates"; they were, he reminded himself often enough, simply an experiment he was conducting to demystify the feminine psyche (in fact, it had occurred to him such an analysis might make an interesting piece for his website once he and Tessa were no longer actively acquainted)—that she used a variety of shampoos and conditioners, different fragrances that seemed to convey varying images or moods. He realized he should probably ask her sometime soon just why a woman would do that. It certainly wasn't a necessity, although he did find each time they met he looked forward to discovering which she had indulged in that day. It turned out the ginger was his favorite.

He knew this was tied in with childhood memories and his tendency towards a sweet tooth. If his mind wasn't too focused on a current task, he found the scent could send him fondly back to stealing into the kitchen as a boy, to nick some fresh-baked ginger bread or cookies from the rack where his mother had set them to cool. His mother usually looked the other way, indulging her youngest even when it might very well spoil his appetite for supper. He smiled at that, and turned onto his side, adjusting his pillow a bit in hopes a new position might favor the winding down he needed to fall asleep.

It wasn't as though he went out of his way to smell Tessa's hair. It just happened that this evening she surprised him as they were saying goodnight, venturing at last to kiss him. Of course he'd known for some time she was physically attracted to him; Tessa might act cool in that arena so as not to seem eager, but he could easily read her subconscious signals. It actually surprised him she had waited even this long, Perhaps it was a drawback to study one so unpredictable after all; but then he certainly didn't want to throw out the all that research after the time he'd already invested. Tessa it would remain, then—for the time being, anyway.

And really, he supposed, his comment about "courtship" had encouraged her. He didn't realize he was going to say it, and then he had; one of those fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants things. It seemed appropriate at the time, so he couldn't very well regret it. Water under the bridge. He just hoped Tessa wouldn't place too much stock in it; it was no actual promise of future involvement, though at the moment he said it, it had felt…..well…..true enough. And...surprisingly right.

Sherlock turned again, onto his back this time. Ginger. As she leaned in to kiss him, that scent was the first thing to invade his senses. That had to be the bit that had dazed him slightly. The kisses—two distinct kisses—were pleasant enough, warm and soft and moist; and she'd lingered in the end on his lower lip, as though she hadn't really wanted to break contact. Sherlock had kissed and been kissed before, so it wasn't exactly foreign to him—although the girls he'd kissed before lacked Tessa's maturity and confidence. Yes, he could tell she knew what she was doing; he imagined she had kissed many men, privately as well as in performance. One kiss more or less probably wasn't all that important in her romantic history. So it simply had to have been the scent of ginger that had thrown him for a loop. And he knew—or at least he believed he had recovered his bearings without missing a beat.

Thinking the question resolved, Sherlock turned again onto his side. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, and discovered he'd been tossing and turning for nearly an hour. _That_ would not do, no not at all. The distraction of her ginger-scented hair, the way Tessa's lips had tasted, the coquettish look in her eyes as she bid him goodnight…these were things that shouldn't be interfering with his sleep. And yet here he was, fully awake and unable to dismiss them from his mind. It was utterly ridiculous; and truly something he'd expect of John (John the Romantic, who if he knew of Sherlock's current plight, would be laughing heartily).

Perhaps the discipline needed to visit his mind palace might do the trick, divert him from this ludicrous train of thought. But what would he look for? No case he was working on currently was pressing enough to require that practice. He'd have to invent a need then. Something far from thoughts of feminine charms would most likely be his best avenue. He laid on his back again, eyes closed, cleansing himself with slow, deep breaths.

As Sherlock's mind turned in upon itself, his senses one by one quieted to a background lull. He decided to search for something from very long ago, something gender-neutral, something simple that had amused and delighted him. A childhood memory then, when some of his best of times were spent in solitude with a good book or an intriguing puzzle. The bother of schoolwork done for the day, and evening stretching out before him, to get a little lost in imagining worlds outside that of his everyday life…..

_He was home now, sitting cross-legged by the fire, reading one of his favorite books from childhood. "Real Lyfe Pyrate Tales: Adventures on the High Seas". It was slightly advanced for a 7yr old, but then again he was no ordinary reader; what words he wasn't familiar with, he could often deduce the meaning from their context. or from the accompanying images. Failing that, he would ask Mycroft, although lately his older brother had less and less to do with him. (His parents spoke in hushed tones of the pangs of adolescence, and all the time Mycroft spent in his room behind a door that was perpetually locked.) The book was wonderfully illustrated, large, full color artist renditions of the heroic, manly exploits and lurid tales of betrayal, greed and lust. There were fantastical creatures too; not just mermaids and sea serpents, but selkies, sirens, Kraken and Leviathan, to name just a few. _

_Sherlock had loved this book, and dreamed of a day when he would be old enough to take to the sea to make his own daring adventures. Lately he'd even come up with several pirate names he hoped would suit him, "Bloody Billy Holmes" topping his list. _

_Sherlock looked up when heard his mother call him to supper. He'd been admonished more than once not to bring books to the table, so he left the treasured book sitting on the floor by the fire, rising so as to join his family in the dining room. Foolish mistake leaving it there unattended, he would later find. He'd always believed Mycroft had taken the book, hidden it, and it became Sherlock's unanswered quest for many years to get his brother to admit to the pilfering, let alone return it. _

_Sherlock was gazing into the fire, as his mother called to him a second time. He noticed the hearth had changed to his own in the Baker Street flat. He was standing_ next_ to his leather chair, where another book awaited him. A collection of Shakespeare's plays, open to a romantic comedy—"Twelfth Night". He recognized it right away as a sneaking reference to the woman who'd caused him to seek the asylum of his Mind Palace in the first place. He picked up the book, moving to shelve it in favor of something more suitable, when he heard John Watson's voice from behind him "Are you sure you want to do that?". Sherlock turned to find his friend seated in his own accustomed chair, a newspaper folded neatly in his lap. John was smiling wryly, as though he knew exactly why Sherlock was putting that particular book away. That was odd indeed—as John was entirely unaware that Sherlock had been in contact with Tessa at all since their initial meeting on the night of Mrs. Hudson's birthday. _

_"John, I'm fairly certain I don't even own this collection of plays. And frankly, I have no interest in reading such things." Sherlock left the book unceremoniously on the shelf, then sat opposite John, resting his chin upon his steepled hands as he considered John's untimely appearance. _

_John shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "You know, Sherlock, its okay for you to admit you like this girl. Or that your interest in her has gone beyond scientific curiosity." John paused to let the thought sink in, then added "Stranger things have been known to happen in the universe." _

_Sherlock sighed loudly, irritated, "I have no idea what you are referring to." John chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. "Oh, yes you do." He was wagging his head in amusement now, "C'mon Sherlock, it was bound to happen eventually. She's lovely, warm, clever…and she has definitely taken a liking to you. Although only god knows why…" _

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes, slightly insulted over John's estimation of his value. "What would make you think that?" _

_"That only god knows or that Tessa is interested in you?" John seemed to be restraining himself from laughing at his friend's expense. He looked down, regaining his composure. "Look, a woman doesn't kiss a man the way Tessa kissed you unless she hopes to be kissed back. Even you have to realize that much." _

_Sherlock allowed himself to follow John's logic for a moment, "There is no place in my life for a love affair, John." He felt his answer was definitive enough to end the conversation, but John saw it otherwise. "Then make a place, Sherlock. Give her a chance," he paused, watching his friend's reaction, "Give yourself a chance." _

_Sherlock was dumbfounded. Intellectually, he knew John had appeared in his Mind Palace because he represented emotion in this equation. But he had not looked to find John there, or the homey answers John would offer. This was not going at all as Sherlock had hoped; it certainly wasn't going to get him any closer to putting the Tessa-issue aside so he could get a decent night's rest. He ruffled his hair aggressively, hoping to stimulate an awakening of common sense. He looked back at John, sitting placidly across from him. John was smiling knowingly, and Sherlock felt he could hit him just to wipe that look from his face. _

_John picked up a small plate from the table beside his chair; it had only seemed to appear at John's bidding. He leaned across to Sherlock, offering him what lay upon it. Ginger snaps, of course. "Go on then, " John told his friend, "try one. What have you got to lose?" Sherlock paused, fully realizing what he was being offered. He reached a wary hand to the plate, taking one of the cookies, bringing it to his mouth for a tentative bite. To his surprise, it was good. It was very good. And not at all what he'd expected….. _

Sherlock breathed in sharply and his eyes flew open. So that's what it was to be then, was it? Give it a try, see how it went? Could that really be such a bad thing? If he was cautious, if he took his time, might it prove a beneficial experience for him? He'd have to be careful though, as there were more than his own feelings to consider. This girl—this young woman, he corrected himself—deserved to be treated honestly and with consideration. Downside—that would take an effort he was unaccustomed to. Not of Herculean proportions, of course, but still requiring studied undertaking. Advantage—an interesting new companion who might teach him more about human nature, sharpening his "people skills". Someone whose creative edge-needed for her craft-made her capable of surprising him from time time. The chance that Tessa could occasionally serve to alleviate his boredom between cases might make the whole endeavor worth the while.

In the moments following his startling choice, Sherlock at last felt relaxed enough to finally fall asleep. But there was one thing more he needed, before he could lose himself in blessed repose. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, typing out a text, but saving it to Drafts, to send at a more reasonable hour. If he was to engage in this exotic new dance, he wanted to be certain to start on the right foot.

* * *

The next morning at 10am a text arrived. Never guessing it could be from Sherlock, Tessa read it over a cheese omelet and buttered toast, nearly swallowing her tea down the wrong way. _"Barely slept last night for thinking of your kiss; the feel of your lips, the taste of your mouth. Wish I'd taken that drink after all. SH"_

Though her heart raced with happy surprise, Tessa judged the best response would be to let it wait unanswered for a time. Time enough to make him wonder; time enough to frame what she hoped might be a perfect answer.

(their story continues in _Can You Read Between the_ Lines?)


End file.
